Spoiling Her Princess

Chapter 1- intro

We were worlds apart.
She, a battered blonde firecracker.
Me, a criminal lawyer with a penchant for control, silk sheets, and BDSM.
What grew from that was something neither of us imagined.

“Darling,” I purr into her ear that morning, low and husky. “The nurse will be here soon.”
She whines, burrowing deeper into the red silk. I chuckle, stroking a palm across her abundant porcelain skin.
“I promise breakfast will be worth it,” I tease.

Her stomach growls loudly, her green eyes flashing to meet my dark brown ones.
I smile — slow, seductive. The game has begun.

“Catherine,” she pouts, lip trembling slightly. “I wanna sleep… and eat.”
I chuckle again, wrapping my hand around her offered forearm — so soft, so heavy under my fingers.

“And pee, I imagine,” I add, already dressed in a charcoal-gray tailored suit, the fabric hugging my slim, muscular frame.
She grunts, shifting, struggling to roll her overlarge body toward the edge of the bed.

The sheet falls away.
I salivate at the sight: her stained, sleeveless top clinging to three thick rolls of soft, shapeless belly, barely covering the dark shadow of her navel. Her thighs spill over her knees, cellulite dimpling thickly down her legs.

God, she makes me feral.

If I had time, I’d throw her back down and *** until she forgot her own name.
But her needs come first.

I let her try to get up herself — my small hands still gripping her thick forearm. She groans with effort.
The stainless steel frame groans with her.

“Please, Catherine,” she whines, flushed and panting, hair matted adorably to her damp forehead.
I stroke her arm gently, feeling her tremble.
She pouts again — irresistible.

“Please, mistress?”
Always knows how to melt me.

“Alright, my love,” I purr, lifting her up with practiced ease.

She shuffles toward the dresser, gripping it for support as she catches her breath.
I watch, entranced, as her massive cheeks eclipse the purple lace panties I’d slipped onto her just days ago. They’re practically swallowed by her rolls now, the frilly edges barely peeking out.

Perfect.
Right on schedule.

I bite my lip, imagining the fabric snapping by week’s end.

I press my hand into the velvet softness of her side, kissing the damp folds of her neck, inhaling her musky, delicious scent.
Her skin is already slick from the effort.

“Need help, baby?” I murmur against her skin.

She straightens stubbornly, eyes flashing that old fire.
“Nope,” she says, breathless but defiant. “I’m fine, Catherine.”

I hum, unconvinced. She flushes but pushes on.

“Really. Watch.”

She shuffles toward the widened doorframe — widened just for her — and, with a wink, gives her ample backside a cheeky shake.

“Thanks for looking out for me, gorgeous.”

I laugh, full and genuine, watching my big, beautiful woman disappear into the bathroom.
I sink into the bed, breathing in her scent from the pile of stacked pillows, feeling the still-warm indention of her body in the mattress.

God, I want her.
But the doorbell rings. The nurse is here.

Sighing, I rise, smoothing my suit.
Breakfast — the next best part of the morning — awaits for my beautiful, stubborn girl.